On Love and Dreaming... For awhile, I was convinced that being a dreamer was a waste. Tears are the dreamer's penance. After awhile, it got too exhausting to try to find hope in every situation. I had gotten my hopes up, spent my days dreaming about love and being loved, only to be let down again. This trend finally got to be too much. My life was destined to be loveless. I felt dull and glassy-eyed, my smiles were faked; I just wanted to sleep away the world. I was tired of participating and being let down continuously. Fortuntately, it was impossible for me to continue in this manner. I eventually realized that, while there's a good chance that my hopes will be crushed again, it's not in my nature to be a pessimist. Everything in my being screams that there is hope, that there is something worth trusting and believing in, even when I can't see, touch, or feel it. I suppose I'm destined for disappointment, but I think I would rather aim too high and fall short than never aim high enough.

Things I'll miss:

Walking everywhere. Seriously, my legs are in the best shape they've ever been in. If I could, I would wear minis all the time and those little strappy sandals that make your calves look so sexy. Plus, it's so refreshing to walk outside; there's something in the air that perks you up, no matter how down you may be feeling at the moment. I personally enjoy the opportunity to walk with someone. Some of my best conversations have occured on walks into Southgate for groceries.

Public Transportation. The tube is my friend. The rattling and shaking can be an excuse to throw yourself into the arms of the good-looking, well-dressed business man next to you. It's so interesting to watch the people who get on and off; what variety exists in the human race! I love the fact that you can buy a day pass and go anywhere in London, and then when you're so exhausted after such a full day, you can use the same card to hop on a bus for that last stretch home. Plus, the little dinging noise that the "Stop" button makes is such a fun sound.

History. The oldest building in Lincoln, Nebraska is probably from the mid-nineteenth century. There are buildings in London from the mid-ninth century. I love imagining the millions of people from the past who have stood on the banks of the Thames and watched the water flow calmly by. I feel such an intimate connection with my past, knowing my feet have traversed the land of my forefathers. I have seen the places people read about in textbooks. I have experienced them in an intimate way; I have lived here, like the millions before me, rather than coming for ten days, seeing the sights, and leaving again.

Masses of People. Again, Lincoln pales in comparison to London. There, 250,000 souls. Here, countless millions. What once felt like such a thriving metropolis is going to now feel so pastoral and colloquial. I can sit in the middle of Leicester Square and watch hundreds of people walk past me each minute. I can look at their faces, guess at what their lives are like, wonder where they're headed, where they're coming from, and I can go for days without seeing someone I know. In Lincoln, I could sit on a bench at Gateway Mall, and watch people for awhile, but I would probably have to stop every few minutes to exchange polite pleasantries with whatever former friend from high school is currently passing by.

Culture. Sure, Lincoln has a symphony. But the London Symphony Orchestra (who appears on several of my CD's) is just a few tube stops away. I can see opera, ballet, West-End plays, musicals, rock concerts, art, films; all of this I can do here. I can go to clubs, I can hear Irish Folk music at a pub down the road. I can relax in St. James Park with a book of poetry and not feel out of place. Is this possible in Lincoln? In a minute sense of the word. Our libraries don't have centuries-old copies of music by people like Wagner and Beethoven, or the Lindesfarnne Gospels. Our museum features a small collection of dinosaur bones and some Native American displays, possibly an exhibit on nineteenth century farm equipment. You could spend days at the British Museum and still not see everything.

Pints. A pint is such a perfect amount of beer. It's going to feel so awkward to walk into a bar and have to say, "I'd like a...um... glass (?) of beer..." I won't know what to expect. An 8 ounce glass? A tumbler? A 16 ounce glass? A pint is so simple and standard. No qualifications, no worries. A pint is a pint is a pint.

Guinness. O, the frothy goodness! Enough said.

I'm sure there are a million more things I will miss when I go home. I still have plenty of time, though, to soak up the things I love about this country. And although Nebraska will never quite look the same, there are things from home that I am only growing to appreciate more by my absence.

Ever have it that... you just feel really sensitive about everything? You feel like you're probably annoying every single person you come across, and all those same people probably notice all the things you're overly self-concious of, like the way your shirt accentuates your poochy stomach and the soft part of your hip that tends to fall just a little over the top of your jeans, or the line of demarkation where your roots are starting to show. Then there's always the sensitivity to the comments people make. You wonder if they're offended, when really they're just biting their lip because they're hungry, or they have something in their eye, and that's why there's no eye contact. My personal favorite is always wondering how badly they're wishing I'm somewhere else, a hundred miles from wherever they are. Usually, in my estimation, they're probably wishing I was in Abu Dhabi. When I really think about it, though, all of these so-called sensitivities are just a result of a strange variation on pride. I'm so concerned with looking good to other people that I allow myself to be pre-occupied with what they're thinking about me. That's a fairly selfish position- very "me" centered. Can it really be called "bad self-esteem?" Possibly. But I think it probably stems more from a preoccupation with myself and thinking I deserve to have people look at me in a positive light more than a strong desire to make sure other people are happy and satisfied with their life.

"Life does not consist mainly- or even largely- of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that are forever blowing through one's mind." -Mark Twain

I heard someone speak today about the amazing complexity of the mind and thought. The speed at which we think, the layering of thoughts, the nature of our thoughts, the ability to speak to someone, listen to someone and still have several different thoughts going on at once-- all of this blows me away. As the speaker described it, "what happens in our heads is one of the wonders of the world." Just stop and try to remember all the things you have thought in the past ten minutes. What amazes me is how frivilous most of my thoughts are, not to mention how inappropriate or dirty they can be. The orientation of our minds will evidence itself in our lives eventually, through a variety of means: the way we speak, the things we pursue, the goals we set for ourselves. I was really challenged today to examine what the orientation of my heart is. What is it that is on my mind when I'm just thinking to myself? Is it edifying or glorifying to God? Does it reflect my faith or my flesh? Just a thought.

On another note, today was another gorgeous day in London. I enjoyed strolling into Southgate, despite the frustrations that were taking me there. There is nothing like walking slowly in the sun and cool breeze, listening to the robins sing. I don't know the names of all the birds here, but there are some that wake me in the morning with their joyful melodies, and I just want to lay there and listen to them all day. And then there are the ravens that churl and squawk from sun up to sun down, leaving me wishing I had a slingshot or a gun to put them out of their misery (and end mine as well). I walked barefoot in the grass and watched the sun begin to set from the grassy expanse behind the main house and dining hall, and I saw them perched in the giant pine that towers over the daffodils, hopping from branch to branch, chasing squirrels from their precious domain. There's nothing like the feeling of cool blades of grass and mud between your toes; it makes me ache for a hometown summer, when I can be dripping from the heat and humidity, but my feet are perfectly content to curl up in the front lawn.

My life as a superstar.

I doubt anyone knows who I am beyond my little bubblicious sphere at school and home. But what if they did? I think I would like to be one of those quiet superstars; not like JLo, because everyone is pretty much fed up with her face being plastered on every girly magazine cover, tube station wall, and cheesy talk show ad. I hope that I could be refined and cultured, enjoying the limelight without growing obsessive. I would be the kind of superstar who appreciated my fans and didn't flip out and kill people like a ninja every time I got asked for an autograph. I would wear big, dark sunglasses and have a funky haircut, although it wouldn't be so wacked that I looked like I'd let a four-year-old cut my hair. I wouldn't try to do everything, like cut a record, make three films, start a charity, and open a design studio; I would want to keep certain loves only to myself. Not everyone has to know that I adore chocolate ice cream and that black licorice is one of my favorite flavors. Why else would I like slippery nipples (a drink for those of you who don't know) so much? But as a superstar, if everyone knew my secret loves, I would be getting half-melted boxes of chocolate ice cream sent to my fan-club headquarters. That would be pretty messy, and as a kind superstar, I wouldn't want to put my staff through that. If I was a superstar, I could afford to spend more time in London, walking along the Thames in the springtime, feeling the sun on my face and watching the gulls dance above the water. I could probably afford to lease a flat downtown; I could walk in St. James Park as much as I wanted to, and wouldn't have to worry about the cost of a tube ride down there every time I wanted to just lounge in the grass and read a good book. I could go to Westminster Abbey for church every Sunday and indulge myself in the sweet music of the choir. Honestly, though, I don't even have to be a superstar to enjoy all those things. Of course, I don't live in downtown London, but it's not that difficult to get there from here. It's spring, one of my favorite seasons, and I have the amazing ability to enjoy the beautiful weather in whatever way I choose. I have a bag of black licorice in front of me (no chocolate ice cream, I'm afraid-- I don't have a fridge), yellow roses on my window sill, and a book of Tennyson's poems by my elbow. Now, if there was a guy reclining on my bed/sofa, my life would be bliss. Even without him, my life is very good. Who would want to be a superstar, with all the pressures of fame and fortune? No wonder most of their lives are in shambles. I would rather be poor and content than rich and dissatisfied.